“Monsieur,” I said, “I told M. le Duc you were guilty.  I went back a second time and told him.”

“And he?” cried M. Etienne.

“Yes, monsieur, he did believe it.”

“Morbleu! that cannot be true,” Vigo cried, “for when I saw him he gave no sign.”

“It is true.  But he would not have M. le Comte touched.  He said he could not move in the matter; he could not punish his own kin.”

M. le Comte’s face blazed as he cried out: 

“Vastly magnanimous!  I thank him not.  I’ll none of his mercy.  I expected his faith.”

“You had no claim to it, M. le Comte.”

“Vigo!” cried the young noble, “you are insolent, sirrah!”

“I cry monsieur’s pardon.”

He was quite respectful and quite unabashed.  He had meant no insolence.  But M. Etienne had dared criticise the duke and that Vigo did not allow.

M. Etienne glared at him in speechless wrath.  It would have liked him well to bring this contumelious varlet to his knees.  But how?  It was a byword that Vigo minded no man’s ire but the duke’s.  The King of France could not dash him.

Vigo went on: 

“It seems I have exceeded my duty, monsieur, in coming here.  Yet it turns out for the best, since Lucas is caught and M. de Grammont dead and you cleared of suspicion.”

“What!” Yeux-gris cried.  “What! you call me cleared!”

Vigo looked at him in surprise.

“You said you were innocent, M. le Comte.”

M. le Comte stared, without a word to answer.  The equery, all unaware of having said anything unexpected, turned to the guardsman Maurice: 

“Well, is Lucas trussed?  Have you searched him?”

Maurice displayed a poniard and a handful of small coins for sole booty, but Jules made haste to announce:  “He has something else, though—­a paper sewed up in his doublet.  Shall I rip it out, M. Vigo?”

With Lucas’s own knife the grinning Jules slashed his doublet from throat to thigh, to extract a folded paper the size of your palm.  Vigo pondered the superscription slowly, not much at home with the work of a quill, save those that winged arrows.  M. Etienne, coming forward, with a sharp exclamation snatched the packet.

“How came you by my letter?” he demanded of Lucas.

“M. le Comte was pleased to consign it for delivery to Martin.”

“What purpose had you with it?”

“Rest assured, dear monsieur, I had a purpose.”

The questions were stormily vehement, the answers so gentle as to be fairly caressing.  It was waste of time and dignity to parley with the scoundrel till one could back one’s queries with the boot.  But M. Etienne’s passion knew no waiting.  Thrusting the letter into his breast ere I, who had edged up to him, could catch a glimpse of its address, he cried upon Lucas: 

“Speak!  You were ready enough to jeer at me for a dupe.  Tell me what you would do with your dupe.  You dared not open the plot to me—­you did me the honour to know I would not kill my father.  Then why use me blindfold?  An awkward game, Lucas.”